


a kiss with a fist

by xwannaflyx



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Established Relationship, Introspection, M/M, nonlinear non-narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:15:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28518492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xwannaflyx/pseuds/xwannaflyx
Summary: Have you ever looked at a person and wondered what atrocities you would be willing to commit in their name?Kakuzu didn't. He already knew.
Relationships: Kakuzu/Senju Hashirama
Kudos: 23
Collections: Akatsuki Gift Exchange





	a kiss with a fist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anon_omatopoeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_omatopoeia/gifts).



> stocking stuffer for anon_omatopoeia for 2020 Akatsuki Gift Exchange. I was in a weird vicious, hungry love writing sort of mood and your prompt just hit the spot so i wrote this out in like a weird afternoon fugue so please forgive any roughness!

_ Have you ever looked at a person and wondered what atrocities you’d be willing to commit in their name?  _

Kakuzu rarely bothers to wonder anymore. He looks at the gleam of his warm brown eyes, the flutter of those dark lashes, and  _ knows  _ (like the knowing of a trigger pulled or the shudder moan of his voice in bed or the dripping fear of a target’s eyes) what he would be willing to do. He has never pretended to be kind or good and even in love his actions are grasping and hungry and hard. 

Hashirama always has a sweet smile for everyone. Regardless of the fact that he is the head of the Konoha family and could shoot a man in cold blood, the smile he directs at a person is full of kindness. There was nothing noticeably off in his appearance to prove his loyalties.

Kakuzu is nothing like that. Stitched together from countless battles with scars that run over his entire body and even mark his face, no one would look at Kakuzu and think of him as a simple civilian. And he doesn’t smile. Whether it is in the middle of a battle or riding the high of bloodlust, he never really looks pleased. 

And Hashirama, with his glowing smile and strange dutiful kindness, always directs the softest, gentlest smile at this twisted man. He smiles like a benediction to everyone but when he meets Kakuzu’s eyes (in a crowd, in a meeting, in a bar, in bed) something about him softens and his shoulders ease in a way that they never do elsewhere. 

Sometimes, they come together like sweetness. The syrupy gentle glide of lips and hands that trace instead of clawing. Sometimes Kakuzu stares up at Hashirama, a blissed out vision, and cups his hips with worshipful fingers rather than digging in his nails. Other times, they come together like vengeance, teeth biting and clashing and sex made into a battle. Afterwards, Kakuzu traces the marks on Hashirama’s skin with lips and hands and eyes, the beast coiled in his chest satisfied. The sly tilt of Hashirama’s lips, the far too casual ripple of his muscles as he stretches, speaks to the same satisfaction. 

Kakuzu’s love is a greedy, grasping thing, clutching at whatever sweetness and kindness and happiness that is offered to it. He’s jealous of anyone who has ever received Hashirama’s kisses (of lips, of gun, of knife) and even more jealous of anyone and anything that has managed to scar the mostly smooth, mostly unmarked skin. He digs his fingers into scars he doesn’t recognize, like bruising the skin will cause the claim to be overwritten. Each and every time Hashirama accepts the jealousy and possessiveness like it’s his due, like Kakuzu’s actions are only devotion and tributes to be offered at his altar. Only the way he smiles, the hint of wicked teeth, and the just-as-greedy, just-as-hungry flash of his eyes before he manages to hide the sentiment, makes Kakuzu finally loosen his grip, satisfied. 

Kakuzu remembers being just a regular, contract-taking hitman. He remembers the monotony of shooting people until he grew so bored he started knife fights until the hot, sharp pain of a wound also became a point of monotony. He remembers accepting the hit for Hashirama, too bored to live, too scared to kill himself, and willing to die if it meant entertainment. And god, divinity, any higher power that he doesn’t believe in, he remembers Hashirama. He remembers the grit of Hashirama’s teeth, the almost feral snarl on his lips, and holding his own stomach closed as he held a gun to Hashirama’s head. He remembers looking at the vicious brightness of his face and thinking about the way Sasori and Deidara waxed poetic about art as they killed and the split second in which he thought he understood Sasori’s perspective in the all-encompassing vicious beauty of Hashirama. And then he remembers being shot and blacking out. 

He remembers discovering (from Tobirama’s very dour and very annoyed words) that it was Hashirama that had decided to let him live. Remembers the flicker burst adrenaline of fighting him and remembers devoting himself to the family, determined that no one would kill this beautiful man until he did. He doesn’t remember when that resolve had turned to fondness and affection and love—all things he had assumed he was incapable of. 

_ Hashirama also remembers. He remembers looking at that feral, vicious, dead face in the eyes and knowing that this was a monster like him, a monster that could understand him and could act with the freedom that he had lost so long ago. He remembers almost resenting his brother for leaving a mark on that weapon of a body, resenting that he was not the one to deal the final blow. He remembers thinking “mine” far longer than he could actually claim Kakuzu as his and the gnawing hunger when he’s out of reach. Then he reaches back and finds Kakuzu’s hands meeting his, everytime and without hesitation, and the beast in him settles. _

There’s plenty of comments, some stupid and some stupider. Organized crime is not an environment in which toxic masculinity can be denied and sometimes people are stupid enough to say those insults to Hashirama’s face, glaring at him then the hulking shadow of his boytoy behind him. (These people rarely speak again.) Sometimes the insult is subtler, nothing said but implications in the sly turns of lips and the droopy, dismissive eyes that turn on Kakuzu. Kakuzu rarely cares about these moments, but they tend to make Hashirama’s normally warm eyes (how false is the warmth, not many know) harden to stone. Often times, those people are not seen again. (Hashirama isn’t fond of unnecessary bloodshed the way Kakuzu is but Kakuzu loves the vision he makes, covered in blood, righteous anger baring his teeth into a snarl. Yanking that man, that war god, into a kiss is more a compulsion than a choice.)

And still today Kakuzu wakes up, arms wrapped around Hashirama’s waist and legs tangled with the sort of non-sexual intimacy that makes him want to flinch. He traces his hands over Hashirama’s body until he begins to stir, small grumbles escaping him until he finally awakes. When Hashirama turns, his eyes still cloudy and limbs languid with sleep, the blissful smile he offers Kakuzu, offers instinctively and without hesitation or worry, the way he tries to snuggle into Kakuzu’s chest, all too certain of his welcome, still makes something in Kakuzu’s shriveled heart curl up and shiver. The press of Hashirama’s dry lips against his chest is whisper soft and the sort of innocent, sensual intimacy that Kakuzu never could have paid for. 

“Wanna shower together?” Hashirama asks, still sleepy but with slowly stirring interest. 

The yes Kakuzu says is unhesitating. The offer is one that he could never never turn down. No matter their past and their days of blood. No matter that Kakuzu is sure that he would put a bullet in Hashirama’s head rather than ever hand him over. No matter that looking at injuries he has made and blood he has spilled and marks he has left on Hashirama makes the vicious part of him thrill, the soft mornings also make him fold. The slow drag of Hashirama’s hand down his chest, the playful wink before he leaves the bed to go to the bathroom, completely sure in his nudity always, no matter how many mornings, lights an inferno in him. Pressing against his skin, water sliding down on both of them makes him purr in satisfaction even as he grows hungrier.

Sometimes, Kakuzu wonders when he can free himself from Hashirama. (Other days, he already knows it’s too late to try.)

**Author's Note:**

> why is writing in present tense so hard for me? also this is probably like the closest i've ever gotten to writing sexual content so that was, well, sorry if it's no good.
> 
> (upon retrospect i'm not completely sure where this story started, where it went, and where it finished but uh at least it finished)


End file.
